


Poetry

by mimikutie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Mentions of homophobia, mentions of weapons and male stalkers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 13:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimikutie/pseuds/mimikutie
Summary: collection of poems I've written on the fly or for class





	1. Fixed Gaze

Fixed gaze

White hot blaze

Shadow

Follows, leers

Comfortable space

In the coffee place

One block

a third

Strange man

A dirty word

Sun sinks

Bus light blinks

But I don’t remember his face

I got a knife

For Christmas

“this will make you feel safe”

4 years uptown walking

Some days out for lunch

My memory’s a mess, what did they say?

Not much

Not much that really mattered

It was how they smiled

Bus home is full, warm

The driver knows I’m short a few

Kind face

Next year’s gifts

Can of pepper spray

Can of mace.


	2. I Don't Think in Poems

I don’t think in poems.

My sister is the poet.

She’s a muse all her own.

She tells me it’s about saying something completely true.

Sibyl speaks only in honest words,

high on Delphi of Apollo.

I’m only in the valley,

asking providence from her

when we’re sitting on the park swings at late summer dusk.

They’re putting away the fair rides and games,

but she wants to stay,

past firefly hour.

I never knew our parents were unhappy with her and the girl,

never considered the import.

“What did you think I was?” she asks.

“I don’t know, I just think you’re Mackie.”

When she looks at me, I see her bristle under her patience,

defensive.

It rocks me to the core to see the oracle afraid.

What she doesn’t know, no one can.

All adulthood long is to know her a mortal.

The eldest takes the curve faster, hits the wall harder.

Here’s to the muse,

thank you.

More than poems can say.


	3. Watch This

Lately I feel so watched.

The closed door is a threat that it may open suddenly.

The clock is only there to run down and the day’s date only to get lost.

The pressure only makes the world spin faster.

There’s nowhere to go now that doesn’t have someone watching you.

Almost every mundane corner of the world today is a closely monitored one.

Not to say things don’t get missed, security tapes don’t skip, someone doesn’t let that stranger in.

You blink too slow anyways.


End file.
